


At The Mercy Of Things Which Matter Least

by feistyslapofpain



Category: RWBY
Genre: Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistyslapofpain/pseuds/feistyslapofpain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wretchedness in sooth I so deplore,<br/>not even I would plague the sorry creatures more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At The Mercy Of Things Which Matter Least

 1.

It’s too nice a day to waste fighting, but that’s rarely a choice you get to make. There are more than a dozen of them, and they’re not exactly known for being merciful. You briefly entertain the idea of sitting them down and explaining the concept to them.

  

 2.

Once they see you, they charge as a pack, with all the single minded ferocity you’ve come to expect. It gets your attention.

 

3.

Your partner is a comforting weight at your shoulder, and you’re hardly alone besides. It’s enough.

 

 4. 

As they close, it opens like a game, pieces falling into their assigned positions. You wonder if they ever play; how they while away the hours. You clash, and play time is over.

 

 5.

Punch, kick, claw, tear, _scream._ You’re not sure you’re any less savage than they are, some days.

 

 6.

A pillar of ice explodes, hoarfrost splinters turning the air to a fine, razor mesh. You’re vaguely affronted on principle. You’d think there’d be at least a passing concern for friendly fire.

 

 7.

What happened to the moon? How many more of these close range gunshots before hearing loss kicks in? What _are_ those odd skin markings about? All these and more, and sometimes your brain just doesn’t turn off, even when you’re seeing the world through hazy red eyes.

 

 8.

Scythe meets skull and wins, and even several feet away, you don’t escape the hot, wet spray. You wince. Cleaning blood out of your hair is always a chore, and you take a moment to mentally block out the next morning.

 

 9.

“You’re going to regret that,” you promise. It comes out as a growl, like the words don’t fit right in your throat. The look you get back is somewhere between confusion and dumb incomprehension, but your partner’s rough chuckle assures you it wasn’t wasted effort.

 

 10.

You trip, and look down to find the culprit. A massive mace, casualty of the melee next to you. Man and Beowolf trip over themselves in an attempt to detangle, and naturally they end up in a heap. You snort despite yourself. You’re not sure what you did to end up with these idiots, but thankfully fighting has never required that much brain power. Besides, it’s nice to let them feel useful.

 

 11.

Another one dies, and their very last flicker of emotion stays with you. Is it a relief? To be set free from madness? From blindly flailing at the world, lashing out in fear and pain? Despite the misery you sometimes worry they live with, you think death is never a wholly welcome guest.

 

 12.

You remember something you heard once. Did we force ourselves on you, or you on us?

 

 13.

Everything used to be a lot simpler. None of these idle whimsies and distracted musings and deep seated fears. Of course, you were a lot younger then.

 

 14.

There are much fewer of them now. You take that thought apart; apply it on a grand scale. One day they’ll all be gone for good, and what then? What does good do, if evil doesn’t exist?

 

 15.

Sometimes you think you could even coexist, if they could just break through the mindless rage and see the world for what it is.

 

 16.

The last of them falls. Harsh breathing and the cracks and pops of embers compete to break the silence. You look to the bodies. Just leaving them here would hardly be appropriate.

 

 17.

You take stock as you work. Death and gore and waste on one side, cuts and bruises and nothing of consequence on the other. You’re not sure if this is a fair trade, or if this is a debt the world will one day call. You’re not sure why they keep making you chance it.

 

 18.

“There’s just been no reasoning with them, not since they invented guns,” you say to your partner. They bite the head off the yellow haired one’s body, and don’t disagree.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted to play with the idea of Grimm getting smarter as they age, and see if I could actually write something short. The rest is birds and stones. 
> 
> Usual disclaimers apply. The title, summary, and a quote or two are from Goethe, and there's a line from Bulgakov in there as well.


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